June
by TeahWeah
Summary: Why George Weasley hates the month of June and how he recovers from grief that could have lead him to suicide. Deathly Hallows spoiler.


The day marks the first of June of the year 2007. Ever since the tragedy, he has hated June more than anything else in the world. Never in his life would George imagine him ever despising June. Back when he was younger—much, much younger—June meant freedom from school. The beauty of summer engulfing his feeling. It was a time of glory, the time to appreciate the beauty of nature with the sun glowing high above the sky as he rides his broom, forming sweat on his body and feeling the cool breeze as it evaporates the moisture above his skin.

Summer was so beautiful before he was nineteen.

June now means the month of mourning and celebration. It was a contradictory celebration amongst the Wizarding community. It was that month when the lost of lives from war has deceased but at the same time, it was that month where a bloodbath had happened on the grounds of Hogwarts. It was that time where people mourn for those who have lost their lives, trying to bring down Lord Voldemort, where warriors—underage and overage—had death sneaking up to them unexpectedly. The celebration takes place to celebrate the bravery of these fighters for losing their life for the sake of innocent others; to celebrate the end of a very dark era.

For George, it was that time where he had lost his brother. His best friend. His soul mate. His twin. Himself.

Nine years ago, after Fred's unexpected death, the whole family faced a major turnaround. Ginny wasn't able to sleep because of nightmares that made her cry; Ron was crying in bed every night, Percy became extremely restless; Bill wasn't eating properly; Charlie spent most of his time working to forget, the same went to Mr Weasley; and Mrs Weasley went into hysterics every few seconds.

It was nothing compared to George. He barely ate and hardly slept, he secluded himself from everyone—not answering owls and not talking to any of his family members whenever they came over, concerned over his well being.

He remembered it well, a month after the incident. Angelina Johnson—the twin's best friend—came over to his flat, her eyes puffy and her voice sounding like she had a bad cold. He felt embarrassed at his state—the apartment was dirty from the lack of care, he had forgotten to shower the past week and his eyes were bloodshot from the lack of sleep and crying.

"You have to stop doing this," Angelina sniffed as she placed a cup of tea in front of George. He knew perfectly well what "this" meant. She was telling him to stop neglecting everything and everyone he has left.

"I need some time alone, Angelina. You don't understand," George said, almost angrily and with finality in his voice.

"I don't?" Angelina cried, glaring at him with her own bloodshot eyes and she shook her head stubbornly, "George, don't say things you think I don't understand. I understand perfectly well what you're going through. The more alone time you're spending with yourself, the closer to insanity you will go. If there's anyone who you should talk to right now, it's me!"

George kicked the coffee table in front of him, the two cups of tea before them toppled to the ground along with the pot, his face filled with rage over Angelina's outburst. He wanted to hurt her for forcing him to speak. He can never get over Fred's death. Never.

"Angelina, you can't help me right now," he said, angrily, "you just can't! You don't understand the power of being a twin, you just don't, okay? So don't you even try to make this whole thing easy like you imagined!"

Angelina stood up from her seat, tears streaming down her face as she looked back into his piercing gaze. She took out her wand and repaired the damage he had caused before them and then stared back at him with equally burning gaze.

"I lost my whole family in this same war," she said sternly, "I lost my mother, my father, my brothers and my sister. How do you think _I_ feel? Sure, they're not my twin. They're not my other half. But George, the whole lot of them equalise to the relationship you had with Fred. I have no family any longer, George. And to top it off, I lost my best friend."

George couldn't stand looking into her eyes—the remorse, the sadness and the tragic were shown in them. The anger went away quickly as it had come. He felt even more stupid now having heard her part of the story. He looked away, ashamed of his own behaviour and pretended to be interested at the coffee table he just knocked over.

"I have no family no longer," she said weakly as she slumped down on the armchair. "No more family, George. There's just… _me_. I'm not saying this to taunt you but you're lucky you have your family. They're really sad that Fred's gone… they really are. They are even sadder at the situation you have put yourself in. The fact that you have neglected their help and the fact that you're avoiding any form of social contact. Your mother is going into hysterics because of you, George. They're—they're," Angelina choked, "They're afraid you'll end up committing suicide."

George looked back at Angelina; her hands were now covering her face as she sobbed loudly in them. He could see the tear drops wet on the lap of her robe.

"I don't want to lose the other Weasley twin," she said in a muffled voice in between her fingers.

It was a long time before he spoke and when he did, his voice was high.

"I don't want to do this alone," George confessed weakly as he sat down on the couch behind him, his eyes looking down onto the carpet below him, remembering vaguely how Fred was the one who picked that carpet when they moved in. "A lot of things—like decisions and moving on and what have you—they were all done by _Fred and I_. Now he's gone, I'm alone. And I can't—I can't do this alone."

He could feel Angelina looking up at him from above the tip of her fingers and heard her sniffled and then hiccough. He gained all the strength he had left to look at her and she gave him a small smile as she stood up slowly and said, "You don't have to do this alone. That's why I have come here."

He nodded stiffly as he wiped away the tears from the back of his hand. "I will be with you along the way. We'll be there for each other," she said quietly and gracefully walked over to him, encouraging him to stand up as she directed him to the bedroom, with a small vial clutched in her hand after she took it out of the pocket of her robes.

She made him drink the Dreamless Sleep potion and he was knocked out almost instantly as he saw her start cleaning his room.

That was all nine years ago. George has recovered, albeit slower than the rest of the family. Angelina kept her promise and she was there for him every time he was on the verge of breaking down. Within two months prior Fred's death, he had opened the shop again with Angelina, Oliver Wood, Ginny and Ron occasionally giving suggestions with new inventions. They took longer to make, but more merchandise appeared on the shelves afterwards.

Within the first year of Fred's death, more than thirty times he had arrived on Angelina's front steps late at night and sometimes before dawn because he was going into hysterics and having nightmares. Each time, she mourned with him, taking him into her arms and crying together over their loss regardless she has to go to work early that morning.

George could never have imagined finding someone like that—someone who was there for him even during the wrong time, who took care of him when he was on the edge and nearly falling off a cliff. It was like having his twin again, except it wasn't.

And now, George looks down before him. A tombstone of nine years old lay before him, corroding from the weather. The sun was gleaming down its summer rays and the world felt wonderful. Of course, empty over certain things—like the lack of presence coming from Fred's part—but George… he's okay.

George looks down at the grey stone and looked down at the writing on it. Beneath Fred's name and the time span of his life, it writes: _"A loving son, brother, twin and friend. He brought laughter and joy to the world. He will be greatly missed."_ And below that it writes, _"Mischief Managed."_

George chuckled. It was his own request to have that on there, knowing the amount of proud mischief's Fred has done in his life time. His mother wasn't pleased when he suggested it but George was—at that time—on another point of breaking down if his demand wasn't answered. Mr and Mrs Weasley gave up arguing with him and put it down on the stone.

George runs his fingers upon the hot stone and from amusement and happiness, he cries suddenly as mourning seep into him again. "I miss you, Fred," he heard himself speak, "I miss you, bro. I wish you're here. I'm happy and moving on but having you here with me would be even greater."

He waves his wand and flowers—of what kind, he doesn't know—appears in his hand. He lay it down on the grass in front of the tombstone and he could suddenly feel a hand gripping on his shoulder as another of his tear hits the ground.

"We miss you, Fred," Angelina's soft voice drift, "We hope you're happy, wherever you are."

George stood up and he looks at Angelina who now has trails of tears on her cheeks. George kindly wipes them away and kisses her cheek. They have lost beautiful relationships during that war but they found something completely new in each other.

"We have to go visit mum and dad now," Angelina smiles, "We're a running a little late. She won't be pleased."

"The Burrow is going to fall down soon," George chuckled as he wipes his own tears, "With the amount of people coming there today."

Angelina kisses George on the lips briefly. As they part, they look down again on the tombstone. Angelina stoops down and kisses it and runs her fingers at its head.

"We'll send everyone your love, Fred," she says quietly as they both Apparate to The Burrow.

June, although he still hates it, could have been much worse now, nine years later.


End file.
